Song Of Chickens
Master, you talked with bows,
Arrows and catapults once
Your hands steaming with hawk blood
To protect your chicken.
Why do you talk with knives now,
Your hands teeming with eggshells
And hot blood from your own chicken?
Is it to impress your visitors?
from The Last of the Sweet Bananas: New and Selected Poems (Bloodaxe Books in association with The Wordsworth Trust 2004) copyright © Jack Mapanje 2004, used by permission of the author and the publisher